The Sun Gods (34 page)

“It could be terrible,” she said.

They would have to face her parents tomorrow, and they would have to do it prepared for the worst. Above all, they would have to do it secure in their hearts that her parents could fling no accusations at them.

He switched off the light, and they lay in each other's arms for a long time, listening to the rain, which had slowed now to a steady murmur.

Eventually, he slipped out of bed, retrieved the thick quilt from where it had fallen, and spread it on the matted floor of the next room, which was separated from this wood-floored room only by sliding paper doors. The quilt would be his mattress for the night.

They kissed one last time, and he stretched out on his makeshift bed under a cotton blanket, leaving the doors open.

The next thing he knew, Mrs. Niiyama was calling to him softly up the stairway: “Mohton-san!”

It was nearly eight o'clock, and the rain had quieted to a misty drizzle.

Mineko was sitting up in bed, looking at him anxiously. He tiptoed across the wooden landing and down the stairs, at the bottom of which he found Mrs. Niiyama waiting, her tiny black eyes in search of trouble.

“Mr. Morton, my husband is very angry,” she said, the stray strands of hair around her face waving as she spoke. “He saw the shoes in the entryway when he left to play golf.”

Mineko's pumps were still where she had stepped out of them.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Niiyama, but a friend of mine had an emergency. She had some trouble at home and needed a place to spend the night. I had no idea she was coming here.”

“This is a private home, after all. My husband says there are plenty of hotels—”

“Believe me, it's not what you think. There is nothing shameful about this at all.”

“My husband is very worried about our reputation in the neighborhood. He wants you to leave before he comes home this afternoon.”

“This afternoon?”

“That is what he said.”

“And you?”

“I, of course, am carrying out my husband's wishes.”

“Mrs. Niiyama, have I ever caused you any trouble before?”

“No. I think you are a very nice boy.”

“Then do me—do us—a favor. I want you to meet Mineko—her name is Mineko Fukai. I said she was a friend, but, to tell you the truth, we are planning to be married.”

Mrs. Niiyama's pinched, little mouth suddenly widened into a grin, and a hand went up to the bun atop her head. “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed.

“We need advice from someone closer to her parents' age. Can the three of us meet down here in the living room in fifteen minutes?”

She nodded and shuffled off in her slippers.

When the two of them came slowly down the steps at the agreed-upon time, Mrs. Niiyama had shed her apron and tucked in all the loose ends trailing from her bun. She sat demurely in an overstuffed chair, motioning the young couple to the couch opposite and offering them tea.

Mineko, having done her best to fit Bill's large yukata to herself more respectably, was blushing bright red. The initial embarrassment of introductions was reduced considerably, however, by Mrs. Niiyama's repeatedly gushing “What a lovely young girl!”

Mineko explained to her with perfect equanimity the difficulty of their situation.

Mrs. Niiyama had little advice to offer other than to urge them to go ahead with their plan to see Mineko's parents today. She was eager to help, though, and volunteered the use of her iron and whatever else it might take to make Mineko presentable. Bill was sent to fetch her wet clothing and then was ordered upstairs again to kill time while the two women, chattering like old friends, set about their business.

As they were leaving the house at eleven, Mrs. Niiyama assured them that she would handle her husband if things did not go well with the Fukais and they had to return together. Mineko repeatedly bowed to Mrs. Niiyama, who stood in the doorway returning the bows. Finally, they got away and, under Bill's big, black umbrella, they walked to Ogikubo Station.

Mineko called from Koganei Station to say that she would be home in a few minutes, bringing Bill with her. “My mother sounded very subdued,” she told Bill, “but at least she didn't forbid me to come home.”

They walked from the station through the misty rain to give her parents time to prepare themselves. Mineko's tension grew more obvious as they neared her house. Bill felt as if he had swallowed his voice and would never be able to find it again.

When Mineko slid back the front door, her mother was already there, kneeling on the floor above the entryway. The three bowed solemnly to each other. The mother was absolutely expressionless with the long narrow eyes and impassive smoothness of Buddhist statuary. Mineko took after her father. Luckily, she had not inherited her father's heavy eyebrows. From beneath the two dark bushes, Jiro Fukai glowered at Bill when he entered the formal sitting room. Bill uneasily recalled the eyes of Seiji Miyaguchi, the deadliest of the seven samurai in Kurosawa's film.

“Mr. Morton and I will talk alone,” Fukai said to his daughter before she could kneel on the matted floor.

Mineko hesitated until Bill nodded to her. She left the room with her mother.

Fukai was seated at the low table with his legs crossed in front of him rather than in the more deferential manner with buttocks on heels. His arms were also crossed, this lordly posture doubtless intended to make Bill feel as little like an honored guest as possible. Bill knew he must play the man's game. He lowered himself to the mats, knees first, and settled his weight on his heels. As much as he had practiced it since coming to Japan, this respectful posture was not one he could maintain for long.

“A father does not like to see his daughter defer to another man's authority,” Fukai said when Mineko was gone. “Especially when that man is the father's enemy.”

“Mr. Fukai, I am not your enemy. I only wish I could convince you of that.”

“Yes, your own father was a very convincing man—though I was never taken in by him.”

Bill felt himself reddening. “I am deeply ashamed of my father,” he said. “I came to Japan hoping to make up somehow for the terrible wrong he did your sister. Apparently, she told you a good deal about that.”

“Your purpose sounds very noble, but all I know is that my family is being torn apart again by a Morton.”

“I didn't come here to tear your family apart.”

“You had no intention of luring my daughter away?”

“Your daughter? I didn't know that she existed.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Mr. Fukai, I don't see what you're getting at.”

“You really didn't know I had a daughter when you came here?”

“That's right. I knew nothing about your family. Tsugiko gave me your name and address when I was in Itsuki. That was all.”

“How the devil did you find your way down there if you knew so little?”

Bill told him of the years he had spent with Mitsuko and of the lullaby she had sung to him. As he spoke, the pressure on his legs was becoming unbearable, and he shifted his weight to the side. “I came to this house for one reason only,” he concluded, “to learn from you whatever you could tell me about my mother.”

“How dare you call her that?”

“Because, for me, that's what she was. That's what she will always be.”

“And have you told all this to Mineko?”

“Yes, of course. Everything I have told you, I have told her.”

“There is nothing else?”

“What else could there be? I was hoping to hear the rest from you.”

“Mr. Morton, I am going to ask you a question that is very difficult for me to ask, and I want you to tell me the truth.” He paused, looking straight at Bill from beneath his massive, graying brows, and when he spoke again, his voice quavered. “Have you ruined my daughter?”

“No!” Bill shot back, looking straight into the older man's eyes. “I could never ‘ruin' her as you put it. I love her more than I could ever tell you. I want to marry her.”

“Americans are so fond of love,” he said with a sneer. “That was one of the weaknesses your G.I.s taught to our people after the war. The Japanese have much to teach the white race about patience and endurance. I wonder if your so-called ‘love' is stronger than your legs.”

Bill's face grew warm.

Fukai called to his wife, who returned with Mineko, and both women joined them at the low table, mother and daughter kneeling side-by-side with the utmost formality. Mineko glanced at Bill as she entered, but he could read nothing in her face. She had become as much the inscrutable Japanese as her mother.

“Mr. Morton, my wife tells me you are willing to wait for Mineko until she graduates from college.”

“That is correct,” Bill replied, nodding. Again he searched Mineko's face for some reaction, but she kept her eyes fixed on the lacquered table top, hands folded properly on her knees.

“You realize that she will be at Tsuda for three more years?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then, if your love is as strong as you say it is, the four of us will meet here like this in June of 1966. Before then, you will not see her. Good day, Mr. Morton,” Fukai said with an air of finality.

“Mr. Fukai, you can't seriously be suggesting that I walk out of here and have nothing to do with Mineko for three years.”

“That is precisely what I am suggesting—what I am demanding.”

Bill looked at Mineko. Her eyes seemed to be focused deep inside the wood of the table. What had the mother said or done to her to make her so obedient?

“It's out of the question. I was talking about a normal engagement.”

“What is ‘normal' for Americans is not necessarily normal for Japanese. When Americans speak of ‘endurance,' it must be with qualifications, in comfortable surroundings.”

“I am trying to be reasonable, sir.”

“All right, then, let us be ‘reasonable,' as Americans say to disguise their weakness. You will not see Mineko for one year—is endurance for one year within your powers, Mr. Morton?—after which time, if you are still so much in ‘love,' you will be permitted to visit my daughter, here, under the supervision of my wife, once each month for the remaining—”

Before he could finish setting out his conditions, Mineko's fists flashed through the air and pounded against the table top. “No!” she shouted, the single syllable reverberating with a power that seemed too great to have come from her slim body. “I won't live like that!”

“Shut up!” shouted her father. “You have nothing to say in the matter.”

“You are talking about my life,” she continued. “You can't put me in jail. That's exactly what you're trying to do.”

He raised his hand as if to strike her, but when she did not flinch, he backed down. Bill watched her in awe, ashamed that he had doubted her even for a moment. Now was the time to make his move. Without a word, he stood and took her by the wrist. “Let's go, Mineko, it's hopeless.”

“Go with your lover!” shouted Fukai. “I should have known—it's in the blood!”

His wife looked at him, horrified. “Jiro, what are you saying?”

“Get her out of here. I can't stand the sight of her.”

He turned to the wall. She grabbed her husband by the shoulders and shook him. “Stop her, Jiro, stop her now, before she walks out of our lives forever!”

Bill and Mineko hurried down the polished corridor hand in hand. They stepped into their shoes and flew out the front door, pausing only long enough for Mineko to peer from beneath their umbrella one last time at the house where she had spent her girlhood.

“You were magnificent!” Bill said as they hurried toward the station, both holding the umbrella handle. He planted a kiss on her lips, but she backed away.

“What's wrong, Mineko?”

“My poor mother. It sounded as if my father almost betrayed a secret of hers. ‘It's in the blood.' I wonder if there was something in her past … though I can't believe it. My mother?”

But Bill was far too happy to dwell on the skeletons in Mrs. Fukai's closet.

35

WHEN THEY GOT BACK
to Ogikubo carrying packages of things they had bought for Mineko, Mrs. Niiyama charged out into the drizzle to shield them under her own umbrella the last few feet of the way.

“What happened?” she demanded, eyes flashing, as she guided them to the front door as if they were first-time visitors.

Once inside, Mineko said, “My parents wouldn't listen. We had no choice.” Bill announced, “We're getting married as soon as possible.”

“Wonderful! Congratulations!” Mrs. Niiyama exclaimed. “But I'm also sorry. I couldn't convince my husband to let you both stay here. You can spend the night, and maybe a day or two longer while you look for another place to live. That's the best I can do.”

Bill said, “Thank you for trying. We'll begin searching for a house tomorrow.”

Mrs. Niiyama helped them carry their packages up to Bill's room and then left them alone.

Bill hugged Mineko, and the warmth of her kisses told him that her earlier misgivings were gone.

After dinner they carried their towels and water scoops, soap and shampoo to the neighborhood bath. The rain tonight was little more than a cooling mist, and he hooked the handle of his closed umbrella over his forearm. He saw her to the door of the women's section and entered the men's side, where he undressed and quickly began to scrub every inch of himself almost as if he were bathing for the first time in his life. Now everything he did would be for her.

He washed and soaked and washed again. In the bank of mirrors, he saw the glow of reborn flesh. He was ready, and he knew that she would be, too. They had not spoken of a time to meet outside, but he was stepping into his sandals when the outer door of the women's bath opened and she emerged, fresh and bright. He took her hand as she stepped down beside him. The rain had stopped, but he raised the canopy of the umbrella over them nonetheless. They glided along in their own little envelope of air. He could feel the warm fullness of her breast against the arm she took.

Tonight, nothing would come between them. Standing in the half-light of his lamp, they revealed their glowing bodies to each other, touching and probing and caressing.

Between the cool sheets, their bodies intertwined with infinite gentleness and then an urgency through which his whole life passed before his eyes. All of it was good and his heart opened to the farthest reaches of light and life. In the beginning was his father, and the spirit of his father moved upon the face of the deep within him. In his arms he held the world. So vast was his love for Mineko that he could not withhold its power from anyone. All was one, and all was forgiven.

When he opened his eyes in the morning light, she was smiling down at him. Again they kissed and touched and shared themselves unstintingly. Slowly, as they lay there, the sounds of the surrounding daily bustle began to rise about them.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

She nodded, smiling.

“Today?”

Again she nodded.

He sat up. “You know,” he said, “I just realized that I don't have the slightest idea how to go about getting married.”

“I don't either,” she said with a titter.

“I always thought of marriage as something imposed on people by society. Suddenly I feel completely different about it. I want people to know that we belong to each other.”

“Maybe Mrs. Niiyama knows about getting married.”

And indeed, she did. “It's complicated,” she said. “You have to rent a hall and hire a Shinto priest and have the bride fitted for a kimono and headpiece and wig and invite all—”

“No, Mrs. Niiyama, without all those things. Just the two of us.”

“Oh, then it's the simplest thing in the world. Just go register at the ward office. It costs forty yen.”

“That's it? Eleven cents to get married?”

“That's all there is to it. Oh, I almost forgot. You have to bring a copy of your family register with you.”

Their first stop that morning was Koganei City Hall, where Mineko obtained a fuzzy purple copy of the Fukai family register. They gazed at the document's old-fashioned characters while sitting side-by-side on the train to downtown.

Bill said, “It's funny seeing your name surrounded by all this stiff, formal writing. ‘Showa ten-nine-year, four-month, ten-seven-day.' April 17, 1944.”

As an American citizen, Bill was legally domiciled in Minato Ward downtown, where the American Embassy was located. At the ward office, the five minute transaction took place that made them man and wife, the one proof of which was the cash register receipt showing they had paid their forty yen.

The more complicated procedures of signing and oath-taking at the Embassy brought the reality of it home somewhat more forcefully, but by 1:30 that afternoon, they were married and pleasantly full of sushi.

Visits to real estate agents that Mrs. Niiyama had recommended took up the rest of the day, with discouraging results. None had small enough houses available for rent, and the few apartments they saw faced either railroad tracks or enormous avenues.

In the evening, Bill brought Mineko to meet his friends, the Greens, who woke up their sleeping son with their cheers.

“I thought something fishy was going on!” said Martha, eyes shining behind her black-framed glasses. “We never see you these days. So that's what you've been doing! Maybe you can take Mineko to Meiji Shrine and tell her your discovery about holy infants and—.”

“Never mind!” Bill cut her short.

A real estate agent from Nakano called the first thing the next morning to say he had a house that had just been offered for rent. A childless couple being sent to the Paris branch of the husband's company were hoping to rent out their house complete with furniture.

They met the agent, a slim man in his early forties, at Nakano Station. He led them through winding back streets to a place called Momozono-cho—“Peach Garden.” The narrow house was squeezed in among its neighbors like all the other houses in this quiet section. It had a Western living room, matted sitting room, kitchen and bath downstairs, plus two matted rooms at the top of a steep, ladder-like stairway. The light poured into the upstairs rooms. It was perfect, but the agent seemed reluctant to close the deal.

“What's the problem?” Bill asked, but he couldn't wring a straight answer from the man.

“Let me try,” Mineko said, launching a rapid-fire negotiation in hushed Japanese.

“He doesn't think we can afford such a nice place,” Mineko said, turning to Bill with a smile. “He thinks we're too young.”

Bill laughed and gave the man his card. “Here, call the Fulbright office. They'll tell you how much they're paying me. It's just an ordinary American student income, but here it seems huge. And they're going to give me an extra hundred dollars a month now that I'm married. That alone will more than pay the rent.”

The agent turned bright red and bowed as low as Bill had ever seen anyone bow in Japan, apologizing. “The only problem,” he said, is that the house will not be available until July 1.”

“That's even better,” Bill said. “We're going to take a trip.”

“We are? Where?” Mineko asked.

“I'll tell you later.”

She gave him a puzzled look.

He had long dreamed of visiting the temples of Kyoto, he told her that night. Once, too, he had vowed to himself to walk those ancient streets with Mitsuko, and a honeymoon there with Mitsuko's niece would compensate somewhat for the loss of that hope.

“That would be lovely,” she said. “On the way back.”

“On the way back? From where?”

“Remember I told you I've always wanted to go to Itsuki? Especially now that it's brought you to me, I want to go more than ever.”

“Yes, the mountains and Momigi are very beautiful,” agreed Bill. “But meeting Aunt Yoshiko might be discouraging, even sad.”

“I'll take the chance,” she said. “If the years have been as cruel to Aunt Yoshiko as you told me, I might not have much time left to meet her.”

After the long trip on the Hayabusa, they waited in the heat and humidity for the local in Yatsushiro. Finally, the steam train arrived, and it chugged lethargically up the river valley. The windows were wide open to catch any breeze, but also let in soot and ash.

They stayed in Hitoyoshi for the night to soak in the bath and make a fresh start early in the morning before the sun grew too strong. They rented a small Honda two-seater sports car for the ride up the Kawabe River to Toji and Momigi.

Morning shadows still lay over the valley by the time they pulled into the parking area near the suspension bridge in Momigi. Leaving their bags in the car, they walked down the path through the trees to the bridge. The forest buzzed with the languid cries of cicadas, and a light breeze moving up the gorge stirred the trees. The mists that had shrouded the gorge in the early spring were gone now. They stopped in the middle of the bridge, and Bill saw for the first time how deep the drop was to the sparkling stream below. The breeze rocked the bridge gently.

“I'm surprised she's not standing here,” he said to Mineko, “praying to her sun gods.”

“Let's go,” said Mineko, leading the way.

He directed her up the path that skirted the terraced rice fields, where heavy stalks now swayed in the breeze that rippled the surface of the dammed-up water. The old, thatch-roofed farmhouses they passed were quiet enough to be empty, and the tea hedges beyond lay open to the sun, unattended. He took the lead through the cedar grove that separated Yoshiko's house from the others, and when they came to the crooked front door, he pulled it open and loudly announced their presence.

The old house swallowed his voice. He looked at Mineko, who could only return his questioning gaze. They stepped across the worn threshold into the dirt-floored entryway.

Before he could call again, however, there resounded a few soft thumps from within. Slowly, Yoshiko came gliding past the pillar at the corner of the hallway to the left. Her face lit up when she saw Bill, but her smile turned into a puzzled frown.

“I've brought someone who wants to meet you,” he said in English. “Your niece, Mineko.”

Mineko touched his arm and moved closer to him. Yoshiko peered at her a long time, saying nothing. At length, speaking in Japanese, she told them to come in and led the way to her little sitting room.

The corridor of the gloomy house was chilly, and the quilt was still in place around Yoshiko's low table, just as it had been earlier to ward off the lingering cold of winter. The charcoal fire was not burning underneath the table, but the iron kettle on the blue hibachi kept up its tiny, bell-like ringing.

Yoshiko knelt formally before the large wardrobe, bowing her head nearly to the mats. Mineko bowed as deeply in return, and the two exchanged the usual Japanese formalities.

“You have grown up to be such a lovely young woman,” said Yoshiko, cocking her head to one side and studying Mineko. “Is it really you? You were so tiny … not even two years old …” She stared at Mineko as if she were trying to bring back a long-lost memory. “Your mother was so proud of you. She was more than thirty when you were born. Jiro was almost forty. They had given up any hope of having children.”